


I'd Come for You

by morganoconner



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-25
Updated: 2009-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:56:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/pseuds/morganoconner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean never had any friends until the day he met Castiel. But the question that would haunt him for many years was this: was his friendship with Castiel a gift or a curse?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'd Come for You

**Author's Note:**

> For the AU/fusion challenge over at [****](http://community.livejournal.com/deancastiel/profile)[**deancastiel**](http://community.livejournal.com/deancastiel/). Prompt given by [](http://uselessplayback.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://uselessplayback.livejournal.com/)**uselessplayback**  was : _Castiel is Dean's imaginary friend, or is he?_

The pain hits his shoulder with brutal, shocking force. He doesn’t even have time to register the cry that escapes him before he is kneeling on the ground, eyes tightly shut, hand clamped down on his shoulder as he tries to breathe through the agony. Dimly, he is aware of the buzzing murmurs of curious passerby, but it is distant, and he hurts too much to pay attention or acknowledge them in any way.

 

He is just working himself up to opening his eyes, to maybe even trying to stand and make it back to his apartment, when another fierce bolt of pain lances through him, this time in his gut, and he doubles over with a soundless gasp, his eyes flaring open, wide and shocked.

 

He won’t recall falling onto his side later, nor will he be able to recall how long he lies there for. The only thing he will remember with perfect clarity is Castiel’s voice in his head, calling for him, _Dean! Dean, please help me_ , before consciousness slips from him entirely.

 

-666-

 

Dean was seven years old, and something was wrong with Sammy. Dean had seen his little brother sick before, but never like this. Never so much that it made his parents scared. And they had been, when they left the house, Sam in his dad’s arms, pale and shaking and whimpering quietly. They’d actually seemed terrified, and that had made Dean terrified by default.

 

So he had locked himself in his bedroom, sitting cross-legged on his bed that had been decked out with a brand new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles bedspread, elbows resting on his knees, chin propped on his hands. He spent a long time trying not to think about Sammy in the hospital, surrounded by scary-looking doctors, but every time he tried _not_ to think about it, he ended up thinking about it _more_ , until he ground his hands against his eyes in frustration.

 

His Uncle Bobby was downstairs, on the phone with Ellen, a family friend, telling her what was going on, and Dean thought she should have been there too, or at the hospital with Mom and Dad and Sammy, except that she had a new baby, even littler than Sammy was, that she couldn’t leave alone. For a long moment, he felt a flash of resentment toward Baby Jo, one that instantly made him feel guilty and even worse than he already had been.

 

He could feel his eyes starting to burn, and he rubbed at them angrily again. He wasn’t a _crybaby_ , and Sammy was going to be okay, because it was Sammy, and he _had_ to be. He bit down hard on his lip and closed his eyes, because really, he was petrified, and he reasoned that no one was around to see if he cried just a _little_.

 

But inevitably, one small sob turned into lots of gasping, shuddering ones, and he couldn’t breathe, and he was curled up in a ball, knees drawn up to his chest as he bit down on his hand to muffle the sound enough that his Uncle Bobby wouldn’t hear him.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Dean bolted upright, eyes wide, his face messy with snot and tears, and he just stared at the boy standing across his room with his hands clasped behind his back and his head tilted to the side as he looked back at Dean in curiosity. “Who are you?” he demanded, wiping his face with his sleeve. “Where’d you come from?”

 

The boy’s hair was dark and messy, and his eyes were so blue that they made Dean think of the sky during summer. His voice, when he answered, was quiet, like he was very shy. “My name’s Castiel. Don’t know how I got here. Are you okay?” he asked again.

 

There was a part of Dean that knew he should call for his Uncle Bobby, knew that strange people being in the house was a problem. But…really, he wondered, what could this kid do? He looked like a stray breeze could beat him up if it wanted to. And…he seemed nice, which Dean wasn’t used to from kids he saw at school. He was sort of a loner, staying away from the kids on the playground, happier on his own. But he realized that he kind of liked Castiel for some reason, so he relaxed a little and shrugged.

 

“You were crying,” Castiel said. “People don’t cry unless something’s wrong. You don’t hafta tell me, but you can if you want to. Since I’m here anyway.”

 

Dean tensed up a little, wanting to defend himself against the crying, because he really _wasn’t_ a crybaby. But… “Do you have a little brother or sister?” he asked instead.

 

Castiel shook his head as he sat down in the roller-chair that had already been shoved out from under Dean’s desk. “No, but I have an older sister named Anna. She’s two years older than me, she just started fifth grade.”

 

Dean nodded, mentally calculated that that meant Castiel was a year older than him...which he found strange because the other boy was pretty small and if anything, Dean would’ve thought he was a little younger. “Well, I have a little brother, and it’s sorta my job to look out for him. ‘Cause that’s what you do when you have a little brother or sister. But he got really sick, and Mom and Dad had to take him to the hospital, and I’m stuck here and not there with him like I should be. I just wanna know he’s okay, y’know?” It made him feel a little better, talking about it, and somehow it was easier knowing that Castiel wasn’t one of the kids from school, and so wouldn’t go around telling everyone that Dean was a wimp and a crybaby.

 

Nodding, Castiel tilted his head again, almost thoughtfully. “I’m sorry to hear your brother’s sick. Anna had the flu earlier this year, and it was pretty awful. She was at the hospital too, for three days, but she was all right in the end. I’m sure your little brother will be too.”

 

Dean shrugged, trying not to appear too hopeful. For some reason, he found himself enjoying the way Castiel spoke. His voice was soft, and he had a strange, almost formal way of using words that Dean usually only heard from adults. But on Castiel, it sounded right, somehow, in a way that made no sense to someone who was only seven years old. After a few moments, he said, “Sammy’s really little, though. So stuff that wouldn’t hurt us as bad is worse for him. Just wish I was there.” He sighed, looking moodily at the floor.

 

“Well, would it help if I stayed here and talked to you until you hear how he is? I’m sure your parents will call as soon as they know, and I don’t mind keeping you company.”

 

Dean’s stare was suspicious. “Why?”

 

It was Castiel’s turn to shrug, just a minute lift of one shoulder. “You look like you could use a friend, and I want to be able to be one for you if you want me to. I don’t…have any other friends, except for Anna, and I’m not sure if she counts since she’s family.”

 

“Really?” Dean asked, wide-eyed. He bit his lip, and then said, “I don’t have any friends either. I think…I think I want us to be friends.”

 

Castiel’s smile was bright and happy, and Dean almost found himself happy to see it, even despite the situation around them that had him edgy and tense. For three hours, long past a bedtime that his Uncle Bobby had clearly forgotten about, Dean and Castiel traded stories about their siblings, and Dean’s mood lifted from scared and angry to spirited and hopeful before he was even aware of the change.

 

When his dad finally called to let him and Bobby know that Sam was going to be all right, Dean whooped and grinned at Castiel, relaying the news as fast as he could get the words out.

 

The last words he said that night, right before Castiel disappeared just as quickly and strangely as he’d come, were, “You’re not just a friend, Cas. You’re my _best_ friend. Thanks!”

 

-666-

 

The next time he is aware, someone is shaking him gently. He is lying on the ground, curled in on himself and shivering with the cold that has leeched from the ground into and through his several layers of clothing.

 

“Sir? Sir! Are you okay?”

 

He blinks his eyes open, disoriented, and sees a young woman with a dark spill of hair and piercing blue eyes leaning over him. It’s her eyes that make him think of Castiel, and the thought of Cas brings everything back to him in a rush, and he bolts upright, panicked.

 

“Hey, relax, I’m not sure you should be moving so much!” the woman says, trying to push him back down. “I called an ambulance, it’ll be here soon.”

 

The pain that tore through him so viciously is all but gone now, an echo of a bad memory, and he knows with a sudden, startling clarity that it was never his pain to begin with.

 

He experiences a rush of dizziness when he surges to his feet, but he shrugs off the hand of the woman who has been trying to help him. “Thanks,” he says, his voice sounding distant to his own ears, as though it’s not really him talking. “Thanks, but I have to go, now.” She’s speaking, but whatever it is she’s saying isn’t important enough to cut through to him, and he’s already jogging away from her before he’s even fully aware of moving.

 

Cas. He has to find Castiel, and he doesn’t even know where to start, only knows that it’s the most important thing he’ll ever need to do in his life.

 

-666-

 

Dean was eleven years old, and almost done with the fifth grade. He still didn’t really talk to any of the kids in his school, and lately he’d heard his parents talking about it, about his “loner tendencies” in low, worried voices. He’d heard the word “counseling” and “therapist” thrown in a few times, but so far hadn’t been subjected to an actual counselor. He knew that his parents just didn’t understand, didn’t get why he didn’t want to make friends with the loser kids at his school.

 

Why _would_ he? He had Sam, his little brother, to look after, and that alone would have been enough. But he also had Castiel, his best friend in the whole world, and no one could compare to that. No one. As long as he had Sammy and Cas, he didn’t need – or want – anyone else.

 

But his parents had never seen Cas. No one had, actually, not even Sammy. Cas only showed up when Dean was by himself, and though they had talked almost every day for years now, their visits remained private. Not secret, not at first, because for a long time Dean had told his family everything about Cas. For the first year or so, his parents had acted like it was _cute_.  _Oh, John, Dean has an imaginary friend, isn’t that sweet?_ His mother had said to his father while patting his cheek affectionately. After awhile, it became something that resulted in head-shakes and eye-rolls. When those had finally become worried frowns and silent glances at each other, Dean stopped talking about Castiel altogether, even to Sam.

 

He liked it better that way anyway. Castiel was _his_ , why _should_ he have to share him?

 

On this evening, he was actually sitting at his desk waiting for Cas to show up while pretending to work on his math homework. He had AC/DC playing on the beat up old tape deck he’d hijacked from his dad’s garage, and was rhythmically tapping his pencil along to the words.

 

Cas never made any sound when he showed up, just appeared behind Dean. Sometimes he’d clear his throat, or sometimes he’d just wait for the younger boy to notice him. Today, he came up beside Dean’s chair and leaned over, looking at the homework sheet that had little more than Dean’s name scrawled across the top. “Working hard, I see,” he said with a grin.

 

Dean laughed. “I hate math, dude, seriously. We’re working on long division, and it’s a _bitch_.”

 

Cas rolled his eyes, but was still smiling. “I can help you, but only because you’ll probably complain otherwise.” He pointed to the first problem on the sheet and talked Dean through it slowly, explaining why he had to do things a certain way, and showing him a couple fool-proof shortcuts. By the time the full worksheet was done and checked over, it was getting dark outside, but Dean was smiling at his success.

 

“You are _awesome_ , Cas!” he crowed. “A major geek, but awesome. Thanks, man.”

 

“It’s no problem,” his friend assured him, pointedly ignoring the jibe. “I’m glad I could help a little. Besides, I’d rather be thinking about math than about things at home. Anna has a new boyfriend. Our father isn’t happy about it, and she seems so… _giddy_. It’s very strange.”

 

Dean pulled a face, thinking that girls were so _weird_. He was glad he didn’t have a sister…he didn’t know how he’d handle it. “So have you caught ‘em kissing yet?”

 

“No!” Cas exclaimed, looking extremely grateful for the fact. “But with our father being the way he is, I doubt I would. I don’t think Anna would dare. In fact, I think she’s trying to keep him away from the house as much as possible.”

 

Dean laughed. “Least that’s good for you,” he said, just as his mother opened the door to his room. He swallowed and closed his eyes as Cas vanished.

 

“Dean?” Mary said softly. “I was just about to tell you that dinner was ready. Who were you talking to?” She sounded troubled.

 

“No one, Mom,” he replied in his most innocent, convincing tone of voice. One look told him she didn’t buy it. He didn’t think this was going to end well for him, not when it had been almost a year since the last time he’d dared to mention his friend. Clearly, his ‘imaginary friend’ hadn’t been forgotten by his parents.

 

“Dean, I think it’s time we talked. Come downstairs, I’ll go get your father.”

 

-666-

 

The apartment is sparse and only furnished with basic necessities. He has lived here for a few years now, but spent so much time on the road before that that he got used to not really having _things_. It comes in handy now as he throws a drawer open and the notebook he’s looking for comes readily to hand.

 

He flips through pages rapidly, looking for something, _anything_ he can use. Any piece of information that he jotted down during those long hours in the therapist’s office. The front of the composition book is plain except for the name scrawled in the subject line: Castiel Messenger. The pages are filled with disjointed thoughts and half-forgotten pieces of his time with Cas. Anything he could remember: that was what his therapist had asked for, and that’s what he’d given, both in the beginning, when he’d still believed that Cas was real and alive and his friend, and later on, much later, when he thought maybe he really had to be crazy.

 

He thinks, briefly, that he’s probably going crazy now. If he were smart, he’d call Sam. But there’s no time, and god, if he’s _not_ crazy, then what if -?

 

But he won’t think that, not yet. Honestly, he’d rather believe himself crazy than go down that road until he has no choice. He closes his eyes, takes a deep, calming breath, and reads the pages in front of him.

 

-666-

 

Dean was sixteen years old, and he personally thought his life was a mess.

 

Castiel wasn’t helping.

 

“Why do you still come here, Cas?” he asked wearily as he came into his room and saw him, just before plopping down on his bed and slinging his backpack across the room.

 

The older teen looked sad, his blue eyes downcast as he sat on the floor, back propped against the wall. “I don’t know. I’d stop if I could. I hate that they’re still making you go to that therapist. You’re not crazy.”

 

Dean’s eyes sparked angrily as he glared at Cas. “Yeah, well maybe people would believe that more if someone else could see you. But nope, gee, guess I’m just special. Or, y’know, _insane_.”

 

Cas stood abruptly, coming over to the bed and staring down at Dean. “You don’t believe that,” he said, trying to sound firm, but it came out more as desperate. “Dean, you _don’t believe that_.”

 

Dean sighed, looking down. “No. I don’t. But….”

 

“I know.” Cas sat on the bed next to him, his head in his hands. “Is she still pushing to start you on medication?”

 

“Yeah. And my parents are still fighting her, saying I’m getting better on my own.” He huffed out a laugh, and it sounded broken. “Too bad I didn’t learn to keep my mouth shut sooner, and they’d never have even known.” He sighed, wishing he could just tell them all that Cas didn’t exist, that he never saw him anymore, and then maybe the visits to the therapist, and the constant fighting over whether he should be taking drugs, and Sammy looking at him with the godforsaken _pity_ that no twelve-year-old should feel would all just _stop_. But he still did see Cas, and he still talked to him, and he knew if he told them he didn’t and then he got _caught_ again, it would all just get worse. So he played a balancing game, making them think it’s getting _better_ , even if it wasn’t gone entirely.

 

It was wearing on him in a way nothing else ever could, and he was just so _tired_.

 

Castiel reached over, hesitated, and then placed his hand gingerly on Dean’s back, a comforting gesture that made the younger boy’s eyes widen in surprise. In nine years of visiting like this, Cas had never touched him. Had never really touched _anything_ actually, apart from just sitting down or walking across the floor. When he did this time, he breathed out a sigh that sounded like relief.

 

“Cas, what -”

 

“I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do that,” Cas said quietly. “Do you know, when I come here, I’m asleep? I mean, this isn’t me, not really, I don’t think. Technically, I’m at my house with my father and Anna and Chuck, and I’ve fallen asleep watching TV. When we were younger, I thought these were just very lucid dreams. But they kept happening, all the time, and eventually I realized that somehow my…spirit was actually traveling here. I wish I knew why.”

 

“You never told me that,” Dean said after a long moment. “Guess that explains why no one thinks _you’re_ crazy.” It could have been said bitterly, but instead it was with a small smile that was only a little self-deprecating. “So how come you can touch things, if you’re not really here?”

 

Cas reached over to Dean’s bedside table and tried to pick up his phone. His hand passed right through it and he looked back at Dean. “I can’t. Just you. I don’t know why, but you and I are connected, somehow.”

 

Dean nodded, and in a very uncharacteristic moment full of uncertainty and self-doubt, reached over and tugged his friend into a hug, and didn’t let go for a very long time. If Castiel noticed the silent sobs that wracked his body, he didn’t say anything, just held onto Dean tighter.

 

-666-

 

It’s been a long time since he last spoke to Castiel, longer than he cares to remember, even if it was his choice to begin with. He can’t recall his friend ever giving him a fixed location for himself, even as a child, but with a burst of clarity, he remembers Anna, and flips through the pages again. Anna and Chuck Shirley got married when they were eighteen, and Cas mentioned Anna moving to a tiny town in Washington. He finds it after a few seconds of frantic searching and reaches for the phone with shaking fingers.

 

_City and state, please?_

 

He swallows at the recorded voice for Information, and says, “Hamilton, Washington.”

 

_What listing?_

 

“Anna or Chuck Shirley.”

 

He’s not sure really what he prefers – for the voice to tell him there’s no listing for those names, or for it to tell him that there is. Even if there’s not, he can go on pretending he’s not crazy – they could have moved in the last thirteen years, or they’re just unlisted – but when the voice comes back and says _Please hold while we connect you_ , he closes his eyes and slides down the wall, one hand fisted over his heart, the other clutching the phone with white knuckles.

 

-666-

 

Dean was twenty-two years old when he finally understood that he was in love with a person he’d never met, a person he wasn’t even fully sure actually existed. The day he realized he was in love with Castiel would also be the last day he saw him.

 

He came into his apartment in a daze, feeling shaky with the realization that had hit him while he’d been working at the auto shop. He grabbed a beer out of the fridge and sat down heavily on the battered couch, staring at the floor as though it held the secrets of the universe.

 

When Castiel appeared that evening, he took one long look at Dean, and his eyes filled with understanding. Dean himself didn’t say a word, just continued to stare blankly.

 

“Dean…” Castiel said softly, sitting next to him on the couch. He reached for Dean’s hand, and the younger man jerked it away, clenching it into a fist.

 

“Don’t,” Dean ground out.

 

Castiel’s eyes flashed with pain, but he pulled back. “Look, this isn’t the end of the world,” he said. “I mean, is it really that bad? Am _I_ really that bad?”

 

Dean choked on a bitter laugh, putting his face into his hands. “I can’t _do_ this, Cas. Not _this_. Isn’t my life enough of a fucking mess already?”

 

Castiel swallowed and stood, pacing back a few steps while he tried to think of what to say. “Dean, the truth of the matter is, I’ve had feelings for you for years. Those feeling are not going away, and I can’t change it, and even if I could, I would not want to.  I came to terms with that and accepted it as a part of my life, and you -”

 

“I don’t _want_ to fucking accept it!” Dean exploded, jumping up, fists still clenched. “Damn it, you’re _not real_! This is my whole fucking life, and you’ve _ruined_ it! I’m supposed to be a normal guy, with a normal girlfriend, and a normal job, and _friends_! I shouldn’t have to worry about whether my parents think I’m insane or not! I shouldn’t have to be fucking _in love_ with a _figment of my goddamn imagination_! I _hate_ this!”

 

Cas stood frozen for a very long time. A fine tremor ran through his body and he blinked slowly. “All right,” he finally whispered. “I’ll go.”

 

Dean scoffed. “Go where?” he asked. “You’ll just be back like always. Because I’m so fucking crazy, and I refuse to take meds for it, and I’ve never listened to a single fucking word my therapist ever told me.”

 

“Don’t worry, Dean,” Castiel said, his voice still whisper-quiet. “As that’s how you truly feel, I’ll endeavor to make sure you never see me again.”

 

Dean was still staring into his penetrating blue eyes when he vanished for good.

 

-666-

 

The phone is picked up on the first ring, and a lilting voice answers with a small, “Hello?”

 

He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly as he opens his eyes. “I’m looking for Anna Shirley. Is she home?”

 

The little girl answers with a cheerful, “Yes, Mommy’s home! May I ask who’s calling please?”

 

She’s infinitely polite, and infinitely adorable, and Dean thinks he should have known that Castiel had a niece, would have known, except that he… “My name is Dean,” he answers tiredly.

 

“Hold on please!” In the background, he hears her call for her mother.  _Mommy, there’s a man named Dean on the phone for you!_  And the reply, quick and sharp, _Dean? I’ll be right there sweetheart._

 

Like his name is familiar to her.

 

He hears a rustling sound a minute later, and then a clear voice comes over the line. “Hello?”

 

“Anna. You must be Anna, right?” he asks, realizing he’s probably going to start sounding crazy any second now.  “Anna Messenger, before you met Chuck.”

 

“Yes.”

 

His heart is beating a million miles an hour, and he’s having trouble drawing a full breath. “Oh, god. Jesus _fucking_ Christ. Anna, I need your help. I need to find your brother, Castiel.”

 

She draws in a shocked breath. “You _are_ Dean Winchester.”

 

He thinks he wishes he were anyone else right at this moment. “Yeah, I am. Please, just tell me where I can find your brother, it’s important.”

 

There is silence on the other end. Just as Dean is ready with some of his more creative swears, _anything_ to get her talking, there is a breathless laugh. “Oh my god. You’re _real_.”

 

He grits his teeth and tries desperately not to throw the phone across the room. “Anna, _please_. I think Castiel’s in trouble.  _Where is he_?”

 

She gasps sharply. “No, he can’t be, I just spoke with him two hours ago. He was fine.” Before he can start yelling, which he doesn’t think would help the situation, she says softly, “He’s in New York. He has a gallery showing this weekend.”

 

New York.  _Of course_ he was in New York, right in Dean’s own city. God. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. “Look, maybe he’s fine, I don’t…I just have this _feeling_. I’ll call you, if you want, when I know for sure.”

 

“Please, I’d appreciate that. Thank you.” Before he can hang up, she says his name, and he puts the phone back to his ear. After a long moment, she finally says, “Don’t you dare hurt him again.”

 

-666-

 

Dean was twenty-three years old when he left Lawrence for good. He hopped in the old Chevy Impala his dad had given to him when he turned sixteen, and took off without looking back once.

 

For the first year, it was one long road trip with Sam, who took some time off from school to be there for his brother. No matter how crazy his parents thought he was, Sammy had always believed in him. Now, when all Dean wanted was to escape from everything else in his life, his brother was the one constant reassurance he had.

 

They went from town to town, state to state, picking up odd jobs here and there to pay their way, sleeping in the car when they couldn’t afford a motel, or camping when the weather allowed.

 

Sam never pushed to find out what had happened to change his brother so completely, and he never once mentioned Castiel’s name, though he must have suspected that he had something to do with what Dean was going through.

 

At the end of that year, Dean forced him to head back to Stanford to finish his pre-law degree, and he continued on as he had been, traveling endlessly, running from something he couldn’t fully put words to. He kept running for three years, and when he was twenty-seven, he finally settled long enough in New York City that he was able to stop and _rest_. He found a job, found an apartment, made a few friends for the first time in his life.

 

And after three years, he’d finally allowed himself to feel that he was safe. Normal.  _Sane_.

 

-666-

 

Dean is thirty years old, and for the first time in a _long_ time, he knows with absolute certainty that he was _never_ crazy. Castiel is _real_ , and he’s _here_ , and Dean needs him the same way he needs air. Living without him for eight years has been torture, no matter what he told himself to get him through from day to day.

 

He calls every hospital and medical center in the book, asking if they have a patient named Castiel Messenger. It isn’t until he dials the very last one, a medical center right in the heart of the city, that he gets the answer he’s dreaded.

 

“No one by that name,” the woman says. “But…we did just have a John Doe brought in, not half an hour ago. Young man, early thirties, no identification on him at all.”

 

Dean’s already grabbing his keys and wallet and bolting out the door before she’s even finished speaking, hailing a cab and praying to a god he’s never been fully sure he believed in that he’s not too late…that Castiel is okay.

 

\- ~ -

 

Castiel wakes feeling fuzzy from drugs, and with a razor-sharp pain in his gut and shoulder. He keeps his eyes closed, trying to remember what happened that would land him in a hospital room, because only a hospital room could smell this strongly of antiseptic. He distantly recalls that he was walking home from a meeting with the gallery manager, and that a stranger had stopped him, demanded his wallet.

 

As he tries to focus, he begins to remember the gun in vivid detail, the way the sun had bounced off cold metal, stabbing into his eyes. The way the hand holding it had been shaking as he carefully reached into his the pocket of his trench coat to remove the wallet to give to the stranger.

 

After another moment, he remembers the sound of the gun discharging as the man grabbed for his prize, and the biting agony of the bullet hitting his shoulder. And then, the fear in the man’s eyes as he tried to finish the job, tried to make sure Castiel wouldn’t be around to identify him later. The pain in his gut worse than agony, worse than almost anything he’d ever felt before.

 

He remembers, in what he thought would be his last moments, thinking of Dean, and he realizes he is shaking, and that there is a hand gently pressing into the shoulder that is unhurt while a soft voice says, “Cas. Cas, it’s okay, you’re safe.”

 

 _Cas_. No one has called him Cas in years, the only person who ever used the nickname was…

 

His eyes flutter open almost of their own accord, and they are immediately met with a viridian gaze. “ _Dean_ ,” he breathes, not believing what he’s seeing. Dean is older, eight years older than the last time he saw him, but Cas could never mistake him for anyone else. Dean is more familiar to him than his own sister, in some ways, and though his hair is a little shorter, a little darker, and his face just slightly more lined, his eyes have not changed a bit, and he’s still _Dean_.

 

Dean’s eyes close for a long moment, and he looks as though he’s trying to pull himself together. When he opens them again, he graces Castiel with a tiny, almost imperceptible smile, and sits down on the bed next to him. “So, funny story,” he says, still speaking in that quiet tone Castiel has only rarely heard him use over the years. “I used to have this friend, this absolutely amazing friend, and hell, we practically grew up together. But, see, I was an idiot, and I went and fell in love with him, and it freaked the hell out of me, for more reasons than I can even count.  So I kicked him out of my life, and spent almost a decade trying to forget about him. Only, I come to find out, this friend and me, we’re still connected, even after all that time. And when he needed me, I just _knew_ , y’know? So…I tracked him down, and I went to the hospital where he was being treated for almost _dying_ , which is really uncool by the way, and I spent three hours just sitting next to him, hoping he’d be able to forgive me for being such a jackass for so long, praying that even if he couldn’t, that he would at least wake up and be alive enough to hate me.”

 

There’s so much that Castiel wants to say, but he can’t speak around the ball that has lodged itself in his throat, can’t _think_ beyond the overwhelming knowledge that Dean is _here_ , and that it’s not a dream, it’s real.

 

Dean, to fill the silence, continues speaking. “I don’t have a good excuse, Cas. I was young, and stupid, and scared. I would have rather believed I was crazy than dealt with…falling in love with you. I know it doesn’t make any sense, I _know_. Jesus Christ, none of this – _us_ – _ever_ made any sense. I don’t…hell, I don’t know _why_ neither of us ever even bothered trying to track the other down earlier, we knew so much about each other. Just…”

 

“We weren’t ready.” Castiel’s voice is soft, understanding, and Dean turns shocked eyes to him. “You were never the only one to be scared of what we had, Dean. Everything that has happened since we met, _everything_ , has happened for a reason. I have to believe that. And…you’re here, now.” He pauses, his voice turning awed, still unbelieving. “My god, you’re really here.”

 

Dean laughs then, and it sounds almost choked, but it’s also happy, joyful in a way Dean Winchester rarely lets himself be. “God, Cas, all this time…” He gives up trying to find words and simply leans over, pressing his forehead to Castiel’s and just _breathing_. “I love you,” he says, so softly, after a long moment has passed. “I never stopped loving you.”

 

Castiel reaches up as Dean moves back a little, touches a hand to his cheek. “And I you,” he says, staring into his eyes, and then Dean is moving forward again, and there is the velvet press of Dean’s lips to his, and all he knows is bliss.

 

They are _together_.

 

Finally.

 

Always.


End file.
